


City Boys

by Verecunda



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Desk Sex, Frottage, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Series 6 Spoilers, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-29
Updated: 2019-03-29
Packaged: 2019-12-26 11:29:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18281714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verecunda/pseuds/Verecunda
Summary: Things aren't how they used to be, but this is a bloody good step in the right direction.





	City Boys

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know what it is about s6 that made me finally fall into shipping this, but here we are!
> 
> Contains spoilers for 6.4 "Degüello".

“Blimey, this is a turn-up, isn’t it? All Cowley boys together again.”

“Looks that way,” said Morse mildly.

“You might sound a bit more enthusiastic,” said Strange.

Morse just smiled and poured Scotch into the two glasses he’d already brought out onto his desk, then handed one to Strange. “Here.”

“Oh, yeah?” said Strange, glancing down at it. “What’s this in aid of, then?”

“Consider it a thank you,” Morse replied, “for today.”

Strange tried not to look too pleased with himself as he swirled the booze around in the glass. “Yeah, well. Someone’s got to make sure you stay in one piece.”

“Still,” said Morse, “can’t have been easy, turning round and spitting in the face of the Worshipful Master like that.”

The subtle barb glanced off Strange with no damage done. He was pretty much inured to Morse’s opinion of the Lodge by now. Instead, quietly, he said, “I made a promise for George’s sake. Couldn’t just let that go, not after all this time.”

He didn’t tell Morse what McGyffin had said to him, a promotion to inspector dangled tantalisingly in front of him if he could just get Morse out their way. He didn’t like to think about how hard it had been, saying goodbye to that. Goodbye to any chance of promotion beyond sergeant now, most likely. They’d see to that. But he’d cross that bridge when he came to it. When push finally came to shove, he just hadn’t been able to bring himself to abandon them. Not Fancy, and especially not Morse.

He didn’t say any of this, but Morse - as always - seemed to have a sense for what was going on just below the surface, because now he said, “You did well. I meant it: it can’t have been easy.”

Strange shifted. It wasn’t exactly the first liberty he’d taken with the Lodge on Morse’s account in recent months. Not that Morse needed to know that. Not that he was likely to appreciate it, even if he did, touchy bugger that he was.

“Like I said: City boys, first and last. Cheers.” He downed the Scotch, relishing its vivid amber burn down his throat, then went on, “Be good to have the old team all together again, don’t you think? Just hasn’t felt the same this last year.”

“Well,” said Morse, carefully noncommittal, “we’ve seen a lot more of each other since I was transferred here.”

“Not the same, though, is it? Took me an age to get used to living on my own again after you moved out.”

“Couldn’t be helped, especially not when I had to go out to Woodstock.”

“Yeah, I know,” said Strange. “Still, though, just got used to having you about the place. Opera playing at all hours.”

Morse took a cool sip of his Scotch. “We got on each other’s last nerve, as I remember.”

Strange snorted. “Yeah, well, that’s par for the course, isn’t it? We mucked along all right for the most part. Had some good times.”

Morse glanced down, from which Strange gathered he was smiling. Consciously or not, it was something he often seemed to feel the need to hide. But Strange could just see it now, sneaking out there at the corner of his mouth. Encouraged by this, he took a couple of steps up to Morse’s side, close enough to catch a crisp waft of his aftershave. An intensely familiar smell: it sparked off a hundred memories and associations at the back of his brain.

“Missed having you around, matey.” They were the only two in Morse’s bunker right now, but he still felt the need to say it as softly - as confidentially - as possible, for Morse’s ears alone.

With deliberate care, Morse drained his glass, set it back down on the desk with a clink, and wetted his bottom lip with the tip of his tongue. He flickered a glance up at Strange, who could get a better look at his smile now. “Is that right?”

Strange felt his own smile broaden, confident now they were on the same page. “That’s right.”

Greatly daring now, he reached out and cupped Morse’s elbow, sharp through the material of his sleeve, and let his thumb stroke slowly. Morse drew a breath.

“You’re right,” he said quietly.

“Hm?”

“It is good. A clean slate for us, after all this.”

“Oh, yeah?” said Strange, cocking one eyebrow. “So there is an ‘us’ again, is there?”

By way of an answer, Morse turned to face him properly. His eyes scanned Strange’s face in their keen, searching way, and heat flashed down into the pit of Strange’s stomach along with the Scotch. Then, in the space between one breath and the next, he leaned up and pressed his mouth to Strange’s own.

It happened so quickly Strange was almost knocked off-balance, and the first thing he found to grab hold of to steady himself was Morse’s waist, pulling him hard against himself. Meanwhile, his mouth fell helplessly open to welcome the kiss, as all the old familiar sensations rushed in on him at once: the shape of Morse’s lips as they pressed against his; their exact softness, so much a contrast to the force of the kiss; the hard ridge of his jaw as it brushed against Strange’s own. Then there was the soft tickle of the hairs of his moustache, adding a thrilling new layer of sensation to the whole thing. Strange groaned, throwing himself into the kiss with everything in him, and pushed forward till he had Morse anchored against the edge of his desk. Morse responded to this by sliding one leg between his and pushing up with intent. This sent a white-hot jolt through Strange’s nerves, and he muffled a curse into Morse’s mouth. Just before all common sense evaporated, however, he somehow found the willpower to pull away long enough to gasp out:

“Wait — wait! Door’s not locked. Someone might come in…”

With perfect composure, but with a very dangerous glint in his eye, Morse replied, “They might.”

“Bloody hell.” He wasn’t prepared for the jab of lust _that_ thought sent through him. It made the blood drain right out of his head and migrate with a vengeance to regions further south.

But he couldn’t resist it, any more than he could resist that provoking look in Morse’s eye. Damn it all, but there was something infectious about Morse’s habit of flirting with danger. Some practical corner of his brain was still trying to come up with sensible objections, but they were swiftly drowned out as he leaned in to kiss Morse again.

Bloody hell, but he’d missed this. It hadn’t been anything grand, what he and Morse’d had back in their digs, nothing that anyone would be rushing off to write an opera about, anyway. But it had suited them. The odd boys’ night in: just him and Morse, a bottle of Macallan or Glenfiddich, and a reasonably sturdy surface. They’d strained the springs in both his and Morse’s mattresses to the limit, along with various other surfaces about the house: the chairs in the living room, the kitchen counter, even - on one memorable occasion - the front door as soon as they’d got it closed behind them, before they’d even had time to get out of their coats.

Now they fell back into their old pattern without thinking. Without any conscious effort on his part, he tilted his head, the better to let their mouths lock even closer together. Morse’s tongue moved against his with the same insistence he remembered, the same deep, wet heat, sharp with the taste of Scotch. And, just beneath that, the elusive whatever-it-was that was Morse himself. Strange swept his own tongue across, wanting more of it, and Morse moaned sharply into his mouth, which sent a warm little tremor through Strange’s insides. At the same time, Morse’s fingers clenched on his arms, pulling him back to keep him pinned against the desk. He shifted his hips very deliberately against Strange’s, a very eloquent pressure, and as the first thrill of contact went through him, Strange realised he was already sporting an impressive hard-on.

“Here, steady on—”

But his words died a death as it hit him all at once how wound up they both were. He could feel it in the tension of Morse’s arms as they held onto him, his whole frame taut as wire as it strained against his own. And with this discovery, he realised how tense he was himself, his muscles all knots. And it wasn’t just from being turned on, he realised: it was everything that had happened today, the leftover nerves, the exhilaration of being alive to fight another day, thrown into bright relief by the lurking awareness of how easily it all might’ve gone wrong.

With that thought, he found himself clutching Morse even closer - crushingly close - while he took his lips away from his mouth in order to kiss his face instead. He followed the sharp arch of one cheekbone, up to his temples and the line of his hair, his nose brushing coppery curls. At the same time, Morse turned his head to kiss his cheek, before moving to the outer shell of his ear, then, with his unerring memory for detail, to the soft spot tucked away behind it, teasing with his tongue. This was something always guaranteed to turn Strange’s knees to putty, which they did now, right on cue. He smothered a curse, and as he moved his head he caught a glimpse of the rather self-satisfied edge to Morse’s smile.

“Right, then.” Without much in the way of finesse, he set about hitching Morse’s shirt and undershirt free from his trousers, just far enough for his palms to slip beneath and skate along the warm, smooth skin beneath. At this first touch, Morse gave a very definite shiver that Strange, pressed fast against him, felt all the way from top to toe. Then his hands were coming up, moving over Strange’s shoulders and up to frame his face as he kissed him again, harder now. Strange couldn’t help but smile into the kiss, and let his hands drift slowly up Morse’s sides beneath his shirt. 

He’d had plenty of opportunity in the past to get to know the ins and outs of Morse’s body, and now he could navigate by touch as well as by sight. His fingertips found all the odd bits of scar from his first year at Cowley - knife on one side, bullet on the other - before moving round to meet at his back and slide up, tracing the fine ridges of his spine. Bit more defined than they’d been the last time they’d done this, he noted. Obviously hadn’t been eating as well as he’d done when he had Strange looking after him.

Morse submitted to this light teasing for just a minute or so, before deciding enough was enough. One hand came round to the nape of Strange’s neck, holding him firmly in place so he had no choice but to meet his gaze. His blue eyes had darkened to slate, glinting irresistibly, and that smile was still playing about the edge of his mouth. Holding Strange’s eyes, he let his free hand fall, skimming down over the front of his waistcoat till he reached the waistline of his trousers. Strange had just enough presence of mind left to realise where this was all headed, and for his pulse to give a quick leap of anticipation, before the hand suddenly stopped in its tracks. But before he could even think about being disappointed, Morse’s fingers were dextrously picking his belt open. The buckle fell open with a decisive _clink_ , loud in the middle of the quiet office, and as Morse continued to hold his gaze, he snapped open the buttons and slipped down the zip, all with his usual brisk efficiency. Then his hand was inside Strange’s scants, insinuating, and before Strange quite knew where he was at, it wrapped firmly around his cock.

“ _Jesus_ —”

That was about as far as he got. Anything else he might’ve said was lost in a groan as Morse’s fingers closed and squeezed - hard - making the heat there flare and pulse. He was hard as bloody steel now, breath coming short and sharp, but Morse wasn’t for showing him any mercy right now. His hand closed about him in a tight fist, stroking and pressing in all the right places. Memory like a bloody attic, Strange thought approvingly, nothing ever thrown away. Then Morse’s hand dragged at him again, one long smooth stroke from base to tip, thumb pressing over the damp head, and he forgot how to think at all.

With a low growl, he pushed his hips forward, and as he crushed Morse’s skinny frame between himself and the desk, he could feel against his leg that Morse was in the same fix as himself. The realisation lit a fire under Strange, and he lunged in to claim Morse’s mouth again with a rough possessiveness he had absolutely no right to feel, but couldn’t help. 

Hooking one arm around Morse’s waist, he stuck his free hand down between them, where in his hurry it collided with Morse’s. A bit of fumbling, then somehow, between them, they did away with all the interfering layers between them, and with a hiss and a hot sliding press, they were together. Through the first electrifying flash of pleasure, the first moment of _Jesus Christ, yes, at last_ , Strange had no idea which one of them it was moved first, but after the first experimental shifts of their hips, they found their old rhythm again, picking up again as if they’d never left off, thrusting together till the empty glasses on the desk were rattling from the force of it.

Outside Morse’s bunker, he could hear passing footsteps and voices, the occasional shrilling of a phone, stark reminders that this was just about the maddest place they could be going at it, but he just couldn’t bring himself to care. His attention, every atom of it, was taken up with Morse: not just the hot straining pressure of his cock against his own, but every well-known muscle and tendon in his body as it shifted and moulded against his own, locking them together till there wasn’t so much as a sliver of fresh air between them. He clung to Strange’s shoulders, hands flexing and unflexing with restless urgency. It was the same intensity Morse brought to everything, as if even this was a matter of life and death, not just a mad fumble in a dingy cubbyhole. He clung to Strange as if he were a drowning man and dead-set on dragging him down into the depths with him, if only so he wouldn’t have to go alone. And Strange was more than happy to be dragged.

Around them, the air in the office was cool, but between them there was only heat: rough friction and frantic movement, till the sweat prickled between his skin and shirt; ragged, whiskey-hot breaths snatched between kisses, rough with barely-muffled cries, till they were both heaving for air. Strange could feel himself getting dizzy from lack of proper oxygen, but he couldn’t bring himself to break away, too caught up in the heat and closeness of it all. In the end it was Morse who broke the kiss, just far enough to gasp out, “ _Jim_ —”

“Sssh.” He risked loosening his secure hold on Morse’s waist for just a moment in order to run what he hoped was a soothing hand up the length of his back. “I know.”

He did know. He could feel it building in him, too: that blinding white pressure, the pitch where it was almost pain, and it all became a headlong rush for release. With gritted teeth, he drove his hips forward, one arm around Morse and the other gripping the edge of the desk for purchase, thrusting till he felt just about ready to burst, spurred on by Morse’s noises of approval and encouragement in his ear. On and on, till he felt himself come to the edge and then - “Oh, my God” - the moment of truth, surprisingly gentle after such a build-up. And then… bliss.

As he was coming down, however, he realised through his haze that Morse, always wound up tighter and longer than anyone else, was still a bit short of the finishing line, and so he moved to help him along a bit. Reaching down between them, he caught Morse’s cock in his fist and squeezed tight: once, twice - then Morse went painfully tight, smothered a groan in his shoulder, and came off in a hot rush. Strange continued to hold him, bracing him as he went limp, and stroking the sweat-damp curls at his neck.

“There we go, matey,” he murmured, “there we go.”

They were slumped together, barely propping each other up, and as Morse stirred at last, Strange pulled back to let him find his feet again. His narrow face was brightly flushed, his eyes lazy-lidded, and he was wearing that bleary, helpless smile he always wore when he was thoroughly shagged-out. Strange gave himself a mental preening, and let himself enjoy the sight of him. There was something about sex that pierced through all of Morse’s prickly outer layers to the vulnerabilities beneath, making him seem intensely fragile in a way that always got Strange right in the heart. It struck him especially hard now, and he felt himself overcome by a feeling of fierce protectiveness. Just let any bugger try and mess Morse about; Strange’d make them rue the day.

At home, this would’ve been a time for lazing about, enjoying their exhaustion. Strange usually liked a bit of a kiss and a cuddle, while Morse usually grew thoughtful. But this was definitely not the time or the place for any of that. And so, reluctantly, they pulled away. Between them, they got themselves cleaned up and made respectable again, though Strange still felt pretty rumpled and sweaty, but at least he felt he could show his out there without letting on to the whole nick what he’d just been getting up to. He glanced back at Morse, who was just tucking his shirt back in.

“Well,” he said, half on a breath, half on a laugh, “that took the edge off, all right.”

Morse gave a faint sound of amusement. “Been a while, has it?”

“No more than for you, I reckon,” Strange shot back.

Morse didn’t speak, but his self-deprecating smile said it all. At the sight of that smile, the warmth in Strange’s chest expanded. He felt full to bursting with words he wanted to say, but couldn’t quite come at. He settled for sticking his hands in his pockets and smiling.

Just then, they both nearly jumped out their skin as Morse’s phone rang, and the atmosphere of intimacy was well and truly shattered. At once, Morse reached for the receiver and brought it up to his ear.

“Morse.”

Whoever was on the other end clearly caught his attention, and Strange waited it out while he spoke to them, sounding quite pleased. When he put the phone back down at last, Strange said, “Good news, then?”

“Estate agent,” said Morse. “That’s the keys to the house ready for me to pick up.”

“What, the squat?” And when Morse nodded, he laughed. “Only you, matey. Well, still better than the section house, I suppose. Let me know when you get settled in, and I’ll bring something round. We can have a bit of a housewarming.”

Morse shot him a knowing look. “A boys’ night in?”

Strange had to fight to keep a ridiculous grin from breaking out of control on his face. “Yeah, if you like.” 

There was nothing more to say to that. Any more words were probably by the wayside now, anyway.

“Well,” he said, “be seeing you.”

As he left the bunker, Strange was well aware that despite his best efforts, the grin was breaking out on his face anyway. It had been a hell of a year, and it was still early days, but now, at last, things were beginning to feel the way they should again.


End file.
